


Pretty Little Head

by dogbites (orphan_account)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Painplay, Power Play, gratuitous rearrangement of canon to suit porn-related needs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:29:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dogbites
Summary: Percival Graves, Commissioner General of the New York Aurors Division of the MACUSA, is juggling PTSD and an open investigation-slash-manhunt into the source of said trauma. Credence Barebone, a young man fostered by the Second Salemers, may or may not be prostituting himself at the behest of personal demons.Somewhere in the middle of their chaotic lives, they find one another - and all hell breaks loose.





	1. Where's Your Mother?

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally for the FB kinkmeme here: http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?thread=144075#cmt144075
> 
> The fic has somehow expanded beyond what I expected it would be. Quick rundown of things to keep in mind:  
> 1\. There's no Grindelgraves switcheroo. Fuck that mass hallucination.  
> 2\. Credence is in his early twenties.  
> 3\. Magic is still a thing, if set in the 21st century and not at the turn of the 20th.  
> 4\. Newt and Jacob won't show up until way, way later. (Sorry, I couldn't force them in just yet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and the next one) ended up going through a massive edit in a fit of anxiety. Hopefully I'll have my spoons in order from here on out!

  _Anima Christi_ plays like a dirge, rising up from downstairs as Chastity practices for the dinner prayers.

Credence Barebone folds the last of the pamphlets for tonight - just in time. An old grandfather clock chimes at half-past seven on a Sunday evening, signaling for supper to the fosters under the New Salem Philanthropic Society's care. Credence scratches off an X on the cheap calendar he has hanging over his bed, the corners of the pages worn smooth from frequent thumbing.  
  
Two more days before it's his turn to walk the streets, to preach the good word. Downstairs, the broken baby piano continues to struggle under Chastity's talentless fingers, while in one room over their younger sister, Modesty, runs around in her brand-new shoes.  
  
The shoes are a gift, with pressed cork soles, rubber heels and real leather straps. It's a fairly expensive pair, considering the budget of a non-denominational church like their own. The Second Salemers rarely have the money to spare, and the wherewithal to do so is even less.  
  
"Be downstairs in five minutes, Credence." Mother Barebone raps on the open door of his room, the woman moving through the hall like a specter dressed in mourning clothes from head to toe. About a dozen pairs of feet shuffle past Credence's room; a few faces peek in, before clambering past to join the rest of the fosters.  
  
Credence has lived with Mother Barebone since as far back as he can remember. He's the First, as though the word warrants itself as a title. His room's door also locks on the outside, unlike the others, which all have the locked removed from them. _He's a witch's son_ , the older fosters - now long since absorbed into society - used to whisper behind his back.  
  
Mother Barebone certainly treated him like one.  
  
Modesty runs past, her steps echoing down the hall, and Credence gets up from his stool to catch the girl by the arm. "Modesty! What does Ma say about running indoors?"  
  
The younger Barebone has the smarts to try and look contrite, bowing her head in a demure act. "Ma says not to do it."  
  
"Why are you doing it, then?" Credence frets over the girl's braids, sparing a moment to look at the shoes she hasn't taken off since he'd handed them to her this morning.  
  
"I like these shoes, Credence." His heart pulls apart, just a little, at the words. He'd bought them for her. The cost sets him back by a day's worth of scutwork at a different parish, but he can afford them for her in the meantime. Modesty had been complaining about shoes two sizes too small for her, but the church's coffers have always hovered over empty.  Mother had asked about the shoes, as expected -- he'd said they were donated, from a couple driving through Harlem. Mother had doubted that answer. Mother doubts everyone, and everything. But she gives allowance for circumstances that mean they save whatever graces they might, to keep the church up and running.  
  
"Well, take them off," he tells her, gently ushering her back towards her room. "Go put your old ones on and get downstairs for supper."  
  
Credence wonders if he can afford to take her with him when he leaves. When, not if. He's made plans to buy that ticket out of New York, to parts of America yet unknown to him. He wants to see the world, to dare the demons to chase after him if they can.  
  
His shadow stretches far in front of him, reaching further than the poor hallway light would've made it reach. A pale sort of pang echoes down Credence's spine as he watches the shadow bend, then pull tight, then slowly rise off the dusty floor.  
  
_The Devil lives with me_ , Credence thinks, shutting his eyes against it - he all but runs the rest of the way to the stairs, graceless as he takes each step down to lower landing where Chastity's moved her attentions from the piano to the dinner bell.  
  
He'll have to feed the Devil soon. He wonders how many times it'll take, how many times he'll be on his knees before the Devil abates.  
  
Credence will be rid of it, this evil that speaks with a man's voice -- but until then...

 

 

The Woolworth Building looms high, and majestic, casting a tall shadow in the middle of a hot afternoon. Credence prefers to stand across from the building, at the corner with the street signs and stop light, straw-tied bundles of pamphlets cradled in the crook of one arm. There's a concession stand a few meters ahead, and a storefront nearby with a strong air-conditioning system. If he stands in a particular spot, he knows the heat won't press so much against his back, thanks to the shop doors being left open, and he could play a guessing game on what's for sale from the stand judging by the smells that waft downwind.  
  
This is what passes for his entertainment, as he hands out flyers for the New Salem Philanthropic Society, his mother's church. They don't have a television in the church. No cellular phones, either. The one radio in the church remains strictly locked up in Mother's room, to be turned on only during Fridays and Saturdays so they could listen to the sermons from the Christian station one burrough over.  
  
  _Mother_ , Credence thinks a touch unkindly. Mary Lou Barebone is as much his mother as she is Chastity's or Modesty's - but she's all they have. Mary Lou has fostered hundreds of children over the years, has even found most of them a home willing to adopt them as part of the family; why could she not do the same for the rest of them?  
  
The welts still stinging under his shirt from last night's punishment remind him of why.  
_  
Someone must pay for the Devil's games. So the rest might never suffer._  
  
Credence's back sympathizes; he closes his eyes against the pain that flares up again.  
  
"Would you like to hear about the New Salem Philanthropic Society, sir?" He asks meekly of a grey-haired man as he holds a pamphlet out. His eyes never leave the cement tile he's standing on. His breathing, shallow from the ache of his back, comes shorter and shorter with every lick of pained sensation. "What about you, Ma'am, would you like to hear about our church?"  
  
The crowd simply swerves around him. Credence perseveres for another two hours, until a man in a three-piece suit stops in front of him. His face is reedy, with blotched skin around the nose, and there's a slight droop around his waist. A faint recognition flickers across the man's expression, at the same moment Credence recognizes him.  
  
This man - he has fed the Devil, nights ago. This man stares at him as if in a dare, to ask why Credence has found his way to this particular street and at this particular moment, but the words never meet the tongue.  
  
A voice in Credence's head whispers, _Yes. This will do._  
  
Credence pulls in a breath. The pain momentarily abates.  
  
"Would you like to hear about our church, sir," Credence offers, but not with the voice he uses when he's standing beside the pulpit with his sisters in tow. He tucks a stray fringe away from his eyes, looking up at the man with a half-lidded gaze. The Devil rises, acidic, the taste of bile coating Credence's tongue as it rears back against his bones. "It won't take a while. Just a minute of your time."  
  
The man in the suit gawps, like an unattractive fish, falls into step as Credence leads him away from the crowd.

 

 

_(There are many things that Mary Lou Barebone could forgive, in her generosity, but wasting graces has never been one of them. Credence, kneeling on the hard cement floor with nothing worn on his back, carves this truth into his mind as the woman he calls Mother whips him with a switch._  
  
 _He's gotten old enough that a leather belt won't cut it any longer._  
  
 _"You've wasted supper," Mother hisses, her words plain and undisturbed even as she brings the switch down on Credence's back. "Burned it, so that your brothers and sisters will starve through the night."_  
  
 _Two lashes. Three lashes. Four._  
  
 _Credence's back feels too warm - and now, wet. A viscous, heavy wetness trickles down between his shoulder blades, mingling with sweat and leaving behind a sharp sting. He understands this, and bears it quietly - Mother has drawn blood._  
  
By the grace and the power of His Name _, he prays, shutting his eyes as Mother swings again._ For the good and the glory of His Church.  
  
 _"Has the Devil possessed you—!"_  
  
 _The tenth lash comes upon him, hard, forcing a sharp gasp from his throat. Credence falls on his hands, prostrates himself without meaning to as his palms slide from his knees and onto the floor. Now and forever, Credence is tempted to his under his breath, but there is a darkness curling like smoke around his wrists now. He sobs, wetly, the sucking sound of it echoing in the emptiness of the church._  
  
 _Mary Lou Barebone whips him five more times for it._

_When he's thrown out to sleep in the empty shed standing derelict in the small parking space, Credence limps his way down to a public restroom under cover of night to pray. Where the Lord hasn't listened to his prayers, a trucker with well-trimmed whiskers and a beer gut does._   
  
_(He gets an extra twenty, just for saying please. The Devil may have possessed him, but the Devil is not without its own kindness.)_   
  
_(The Devil can stay just a little longer.))_

  
  
  
  
Credence spits twice into the gutter, the taste of the man's spend bitter against his teeth. Two fifties, crisp but crumpled up, nestle themselves in his jacket pocket. The man would not look him in the eye after the deed had been done, especially not after Credence had wished him well by the grace of the Lord, but Credence managed to tuck four pamphlets into his jacket. Years of darning his siblings' clothes have taught his fingers deftness, and years of leather bites on his skin had taught him—  
  
Other things. Dark, scaled secrets that the Devil thrives on.  
_  
Why are you such a difficult boy?_  
  
Alone in the alley, Credence shakes his head freely, as if it would drive the Devil out.  
  
He rights his jacket, smoothing the lapels and the shirt collar caught under it, turning his attention afterwards to the pamphlets that he'd left on the wayside. It's a smaller pile now - roughly a handful by his best guess. It's a fair trade for the ache in his knees, as far as he's concerned. He's done his work.  
_  
Your momma won't love you. Let me love you.  
  
_ Credence smooths his hair back, where the man had disturbed it at the nape. He'll need a haircut very soon; the edges of his fringe are starting to prick at his eyelids.  
  
_Listen to me..._  
  
"No," Credence denies, stepping back into the busy streets to resume his post.  
  
The Lord's work will not perform themselves, after all.  
  
  
_  
  
  
(Christmas Eve. Under the New York skyline, Credence tosses in sleep. A fever-heat has seeped into his very bones, but his sweat is cold, almost milky; Credence's back is bowed so severely that his bones seem to threaten to push through his skin. His threadbare quilt has long been kicked off the bed, having slithered into a limp pile on the floor._  
_  
Even in his dreamless sleep, Credence knows it's the Devil come to visit._  
_  
"No, please," he prays, slipping to and from consciousness. A deep blackness creeps around him, taking hold of him at the ankles, at the wrists, until Credence thinks he might disappear into it—_ _The church groans, shudders, cobwebs and dust raining down as if the whole house is being shaken apart. A broken window rattles as a dark shape slithers through the glass.)_

  
  
  


"You, boy!" There's a man from across the street striding towards Credence with effortless grace. He's sucking on a cigarette, the scent of smoke acrid and sharp against Credence's senses, but underneath it is an alluring cologne that winks rather than assaults in its overtones.  
  
It's past the hour when he should be heading back. Credence expects Mother Barebone at the door, and the anticipation of being hit is so vivid that it rides Credence flush to the cheeks, the color high on his face that he's sure he must be burning. The man, though - this man, with clothes sharp as anything and eyes that seem to see everything--  
  
Mother has a word for the very feeling that's pulling at Credence's insides, twisting him up and leaving him to pool low in his belly.  
  
"What's that you got there?" The man asks. His voice is rough, heavy. Credence takes a step back, but the Devil stills him in his steps.  
_  
This will do,_ it hisses, excites itself at the prospect. _This will do so well for us both._


	2. Dirty Mind, Dirty Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves unwinds, Seraphina Picquery stabs the point at the heart, some familiar faces pop in for a bit, and a lot of necessary dialogue is dealt with. I accidentally deleted a considerable amount of words off the top of this chapter, also; updating the summary to include pretty graphic domestic abuse and (separately in a different scene) oral sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick rundown of things to keep in mind:  
> 1\. There's no Grindelgraves switcheroo. Fuck that mass hallucination.  
> 2\. Credence is in his early twenties.  
> 3\. Magic is still a thing, if set in the 21st century and not at the turn of the 20th.  
> 4\. Newt and Jacob won't show up until way, way later. (Sorry, I couldn't force them in just yet.)
> 
> (Work and chapter titles are from Eliza Rickman's Pretty Little Head. It's a cool song, check it out!)

_(A girl explodes into a million pieces in front of him - her lungs shatter against the windshield of a Honda Civic, her skullcap slices through the plate glass front of a nearby coffee shop. All around him are people either dying or trying to escape the cresting waves of attacks that Gellert Grindelwald has unleashed in urban Munich.  
  
Graves pulls a junior Auror out from under a collapsed EMT van. The boy isn't one of his - possibly from the Ministry's, or some other country's.  
  
A litany of invectives escape him. The boy is, despite himself, still breathing.  
  
Everything from the boy's waist down is also gone.)  
  
  
_  
  
"Commissioner! Could I have a word!"

Percival Graves, Commissioner General of the New York Aurors Division of the MACUSA, sighs with aggravation into his morning coffee. He's had three hours of sleep at the most, and there's a lingering ache somewhere behind his ear that he isn't sure is a burgeoning migraine or the side effects of a hex that hit him two nights before. He jams the elevator's button a few times as Detective Tina Goldstein's heels click behind him in hurried steps. Using the reflective surface of the elevator doors to see behind him, Graves watches her approach, with her folders trapped in one arm and a small briefcase swinging wildly at the crook of the other. A very familiar flyer is sticking out of one folder. Graves prays, _wills_ with his mind for the elevator to hurry up.

"Good morning, Tina," he greets her, not waiting for her to catch her breath. His voice is rough from a strong lack of sleep, and the four cigarettes he smoked one right after another before coming into the building. "It's barely seven. I'm not going to hear about the New Salemers today, right?"

"Sir, Mr. Commissioner—" There's a desperation to Tina's voice this morning, that much Graves could hear plain. The detective pulls in a breath, a speech clearly prepared judging from her demeanor, but Graves cuts her off before she can go through his entire service record in an attempt to pander to his ego.

He won't deny he has one. He just doesn't have the patience for it today.

"Two minutes. That's all I have for you today, Tina, make it count."

Tina draws another, deeper gulp of air. "It's the children, sir. The mother—"

He drowns out the rest, soon as he realizes with much disappointment that he's heard this before. Eight hours ago, to be exact; Tina Goldstein is nothing if not tenacious. _Stubborn_ , painfully so. Graves drains his paper cup, mulling over a response as the elevator finally decides to arrive. The squat, frowning house elf manning the post today isn't Red, and Graves files the observation for later, hauling Tina into the elevator by the arm. It jostles some of the folders she's holding, but her reflexes catch the slack without missing a beat.

Graves almost smiles. Despite her recent demotion from Special Investigations to Community Disturbances, Tina's instincts haven't tarnished.

"Remind me again why I agreed to let you re-open the New Salemers case."

Tina's lips purse into a thin line. Meanwhile, the elevator careens to the Special Investigations floor, the floor numbers rapidly ticking by off a little gold panel overhead. Graves catches the glint of longing in Tina's eyes as they near his floor - just his, now, and the handful of Aurors Tina used to work with - and not for the first time he considers giving President Picquery a very colorful piece of his mind about the detective's demotion.

"The New Salemers are a potential danger to the magical community because of the incendiary nature of their, ah, _preaching_ —"

"Hate speech. You can say it, Tina. We're not in front of the board."

"That's exactly the problem! I need to meet with the board, sir!" Her voice pitches high, just as the elevator shunts to a stop and the doors start folding aside to let passengers off. "They've moved from speeches to public demonstrations and Mary Lou Barebone has been using her foster kids to—"

"No. Not enough." Graves disembarks while shrugging his coat off, handing it and his empty cup to a waiting Abernathy, the section's erstwhile secretary. "Give me something I can squeeze on, Tina. Hell, give me someone we can Obliviate, but until _then_ —"  
  
He waves her goodbye as the elevator door shuts, Tina's audible protests folding over one another.

Despite appearances, Graves is fond of the girl. Strong-willed, bull-headed, exceptionally keen. The mishap that led to her demotion had simply been... misguided. Graves shakes his head, his disappointment at her demotion still lingering after all these months. She would've made good work in Special Investigations.

"All right. Everybody, to me." He claps for his people's collective attention as he steps into the middle of the floor's bull pen. A whole section of the far wall serves as his backdrop this morning - the wall is papered from the high ceiling to the carpeted floor with maps, pictures, and various notes, colored strings pinned to places that all pull in to center on a card with one name written on it: Gellert Grindelwald.

Graves unbuttons his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up, and takes the fresh cup of coffee Abernathy's already prepared for him. "Where are we on Grindelwald?"

The room erupts into a cacophony of eager voices.  
  
Graves drains his cup in one go, thinking to himself: _this is going to be a long day_.

  
  
  
  
Time stops meaning anything.  
  
At least that's what Graves would like to think, at half-past eleven, as the pile of "tips" they've received over the week regarding Grindelwald's whereabouts continues to grow like an enormous fungus. It's even started to eat up space on Tina's empty desk, the position left unoccupied despite Picquery's insistence to hire someone. He doesn't have to hire anyone when there's a perfectly good detective eighteen floors down that should be sitting there.  
  
And there's also the Madame President. Her letter of summons sits in the back of his bottom drawer; every other minute his table gives a little shake as the letter attempts valiantly to escape and deliver itself into his hands. He'll have to talk to her at some point.  
  
Just not yet.   
  
Graves sighs again. He's itching for a cigarette, but the new regulations won't allow it.  
  
"Abernathy," he calls out, flagging the secretary as he passes with a flick of his fingers. The boy - for he couldn't be anything else, fresh-faced and barely in his twenties - all but runs up to him, eager to please. The boy isn't hard to look at, either -- Graves would not be opposed to seeing this eagerness outside of work. But there are rules in place, even for a quick one-off -- Graves doesn't have the patience for it. "Don't you have anywhere to be tonight?"  
  
"No, sir," the boy answers brightly, if a bit confusedly. "Do you need me for anything, Commissioner?"  
  
"Sort these papers on my desk in order of priority for week, and cancel my meeting tomorrow with the President." The boy blanches - Graves almost laughs at the look. "If her secretary gives you grief, handle it."  
  
" _Sir?_ We've already rescheduled the meeting four times—"  
  
"Reschedule again," Graves replies, and this time he smiles - all teeth, barely amused. "If the President wants to meet, she'll find a way."  
  
Abernathy's eyes widen to near-comical proportions. Graves gets up off his desk, pats the boy on the shoulder, and calls for his coat and scarf. "Where are you going, sir?" There's an audible note of panic in Abernathy's voice, this time.  
  
"To smoke. Get some sleep. Anything that gets me out of this building."  
  
Graves is already tapping out a cigarette before he's stepped out of the elevator, fingers ready to snap a little fire once he's reached the short awning that serves as de facto smoking corner for the department. The corner is glamoured against No-Majs, as their laws prohibit public smoking of any kind, but the glamour doesn't necessarily hide them from sight. No-Maj eyes only slide over them, conveniently forgetting about whichever wizard happens to be standing there. The distinct smell of cigarette smoke isn't hidden, either.  
  
It's convenient enough for Graves's needs. He takes two long pulls, savoring the bitter smoke and the nicotine rush. Tonight is a cold night - the wind picks up harshly, pushing Graves' coat open before he can spell an invisible wall to shield him from the breeze.

   


It's through the flurry of littered trash and stray parking tickets  tumbling along the pavement that he notices the boy.  
  
He's a slight little thing, with an uneven haircut that's been grown into, the remnants of a severe bowlcut softened by passage of time. The boy's cheeks are a high pink, possibly from the weather, and his clothes look handed down at least twice.  
  
He also has a very familiar pamphlet in hand.  
  
Curious, Graves thinks, dropping his stick to the floor and putting it out with his heel. He taps out a second, lighting up as he makes his way across the street.  
  
"You, boy!" He calls out. Graves' voice startles the young man, even prompting him to step back as if he's done wrong, but a quiet resolve forms in him. The boy doesn't walk away. "What's that you got there?"  
  
"The work of God, sir," the boy replies - his voice is deeper than Graves had expected. "Would you like to hear about—"  
  
"Isn't your church all about the fire and brimstone, 'tie them at the stakes' sort of thing?"  
  
The boy, with his hand (and pamphlet) held out in front of him, blinks at him in bemusement. "You're familiar with the church."  
  
"Kind of hard not to be. You're with the New Salemers, right?" The boys blinks again, owlishly, and Graves points to the mailbox behind him. An NSPS flyer had been pasted over the USPS logo; someone had half-heartedly attempted to scrape the flyer off, to little success. The boy's expression crumples a bit at the sight.  
  
"Mother Barebone disapproves of that name, but yes." There's a slight furrow to the boy's frown now; if Graves had to guess, the boy isn't used to being paid attention to. "We're seeking the enlightenment of the people against the threat of witches creeping through the city right under our noses."  
  
"Do you believe in witches, then?"  
  
"I believe there is evil in this world, sir." At this, the boy's eyes harden. It's a stark look on such a young man; Graves' pulse quickens at the sight.  
  
"And witches are a part of it." Graves asks, flicking away his burned-out cigarette only to replace it with a fresh one in quick, fluid movements. He sucks on the stick, eyes turned away.  
  
The boy watches Graves' mouth as he replies. "Among many things, sir."  
  
Graves draws deep off the stick. Watches this peculiar young man through the cigarette smoke as he in turn is assessed, measured by boy likely no more than half Graves' own age. This is Tina's case - he can see why her concern had been flourishing unabated, if all the Barebone children under the wretched Mary Lou's care are as intriguing as this one. Graves blows smoke out on the exhale; the wind picks up again, and drags the smoke right into the boy's face.  
  
He sucks a breath through his teeth. "Sorry about the smoke."  
  
"It's fine," the young man says, though he coughs once. "If you'll take a pamphlet—"  
  
"You'll call it even?" The boy smiles - Graves is sure of it, even if he thinks he may have made it up, the smile having come and gone in the blink of an eye. He takes the pamphlet from the boy's outstretched hand all the same. "How about you tell me your name and I'll take the rest of those flyers off you?"  
  
Without missing a beat: "Credence Barebone, sir."  
  
Credence - what a strange name. Graves takes the sheaf of pamphlets from the boy's hands, and as the boy's sleeve rides up his arm Graves doesn't miss the faint scars running up the boy's wrists. The boy - Credence - doesn't notice that he's noticed. All the better for the both of them; Graves has unfortunate designs already forming just from the sight of the scars. "Well, then. Credence. Let's not see you on this corner again at this time of night, shall we?"  
  
The Barebone boy is definitely smiling now, but it's a smile that doesn't reveal any joy or glee whatsoever. There's a sadness etched into the corners of the boy's mouth - something about it makes Graves want to wipe it off with his fingers, to brush it away like errant dirt. "Would that I could, mister - the Lord's work does not rest."  
  
  
  
The look of the boy, with his flushed cheeks and his hunched shoulders, sticks with Graves as he walks off the last of his cigarettes. _What a sweet one_ , he'd thought, as he crossed back to the Woolworth building. The boy had stayed there until all the pamphlets in his possession have been given away. Wasn't he cold? His jacket had been so worn.  
  
Wasn't he hungry? Tired? How long had that boy been standing there?  
  
Graves loosens his tie and pulls out his phone, tapping a quick text to an unlisted number. ( _We're not doing the preliminaries. Be ready for me_.)    
  
(He gets a succinct _Okay_ not five seconds later.)

  


Graves leans back into a large wingback chair as he drains his glass, topped up to near the brim with the most expensive alcohol in his collection. The young man on his knees between Graves' own is having a go at it with everything he has; Graves smiles over the lip of the glass as he watches his cock disappear between plush lips. The young man's cheeks are rosy with effort, and on every other downstroke or so Graves is hitting the back of his throat -- half on purpose, just to see how much the young man can take.  
  
He's trying not to call the young man a boy.  
  
He's not doing too well, in the privacy of his own mind.  
  
Graves grunts, setting his glass down on a nearby table. With both hands free, he cards through the boy's hair - silky, pale yellow, that they almost look like spun gold. He combs fine strands back, stroking the boy's cheeks with his knuckles; the boy hums around him, pleased as fucking punched at the touch.  
  
_Yeah, you like that_. Graves takes a fistful of hair and tightens his grip unkindly.  
  
The boy hums again - this time, edged with a bitter note.  
  
"I'm going to fuck your mouth in earnest now, if you don't mind," Graves breathes, the words rumbling low. "Put your hands on my knees if you want something else. If you're good—"  
  
A high-pitched whimper. Graves liked the sound of it.  
  
"If you're _good_ , if you can take it. Leave your hands where they are."  
  
There's a long, stretched moment of hesitation where Graves thinks the boy might actually tap out, in a manner of speaking. He thrusts a couple times, shallowly into the boy's mouth, his version of gentle foreplay causing the boy to cough. Then, quite decidedly, two slender hands press firm against the upholstery of Graves' seat.  
  
It doesn't take too long before a frantic string of muted _ah_ s fill the room.   
  
  
  
_(He folds the boy in half, pushes his knees up to his ears and fucks into him like he's trying to take him apart. There are hand-shaped bruises on the boy's calves, scratch marks along the backs of his thighs. Graves pulls out of the boy when he's ready, stripping off the condom and spilling over the boy's length.  
  
He watches his spend trickle down between the boy's thighs, wipes it away with the flat of his palm.  
  
In turn, with the same slick-stained hand, he squeezes around the boy's throat until he goes slack.)_  
 

   
The New York landscape buzzes alight, even in the late hour, and Graves peers down on the intricate web of streets from the penthouse suite he borrows when he's in a mood. He has a clove cigarette slowly burning between his fingers - an affectation he inherited from his mother, bless her soul. The place is his in name - it's something of a family heirloom, passed down from generations of Irish immigrants who had worked their backs raw for a piece of that American Dream. The Graves household now has the gold and the fame to show for all those years of hard work, but there's no legacy to speak of yet.  
  
Graves plans to change that.  
  
"Mind if I take one?" A soft voice pipes up from behind him, as a cool hand plucks the lit cigarette away from between Graves' fingers. The boy - the young man, what was his name? - uses the burning end to light a cigarette he'd taken from Graves' own stock; the thought to take the boy by the jaw and make him ask again, politely this time, crosses his mind.  
  
He knows he shouldn't, though. Their time this week is up.  
  
"Same time next Monday?" He asks perfunctorily, already sorting through his schedule to see if he should amend his own question. Unexpectedly for Graves, the boy takes the decision out of his hands tonight.  
  
"Can't do next week, hon," the boy coos, blowing perfect circles at the last oh. "I'm skipping town."  
  
Oh. Three perfect concentric circles float towards the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, before dissipating. Graves hadn't planned for this, and the very thought of it annoys him.  
  
He's slacking.  
  
"You're not gonna ask if it's the money?" The boy asks, his question dripping with insinuations. "I actually hoped that you would."  
  
Graves takes the boy's chin in one hand, rubbing at the faint scar along the jut of the jawbone. He'd put it there, remembers his teeth cutting into the skin, eyes shut but mindful for the watchword they've decided between each other. It never came. That, coupled with Graves' suspicions that he's been underpaying—  
  
"If it were the money," Graves mouthed against the boy's brow, breathing in the scent of shampoo and soap off the boy's skin. "You'd have said something weeks ago."  
  
The boy hums against Graves' collarbone. Deft fingers unfurl the knot of Graves' robes, slipping between the terrycloth and taking him in hand. He's not ready to go for a while yet; Graves is loathe to use magic for these affairs.  
  
Pale eyelashes flutter against the collar of Graves' robe, the boy breathing delicately as his well-practiced hands toy with Graves' length. "One last go?" A blunt fingernail scrapes roughly at the slit, the sharp curve of the nail digging into sensitive skin. "I'll do it for free."  
  
Graves sighs into it. "On your knees, then." 

 

> SENT: 11:47 PM  
>  TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET  
>    
>  History of abuse re: Barebone fosters?
> 
>  
> 
> SENT: 11:48 PM  
>  TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET  
>    
>  Well-documented allegations in No-Maj court, but no arrests ever made. Are you looking into my files, Commissioner?
> 
>  
> 
> SENT: 12:21 PM  
>  TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET
> 
> Just curious. Keep at it.
> 
>  
> 
> SENT: 12:21 PM  
>  TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET  
>    
>  I knew you were listening. Sir. I won't let you down.
> 
>  
> 
> SENT: 12:29 PMT  
>  TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET
> 
> Fucks' sake, Tina.  
>    
>    
>  SENT: 12:21 PM  
>  TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET  
>    
>  :)
> 
>    
>  SENT: 12:29 PM  
>  TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET  
>    
>  Don't make me fire you.

  

Graves had suspected that some sort of game was afoot the minute he stepped into the Woolworth Building, as a great hush descended on the crowd at the sight him walking in. He'd thought it to be his imagination — he'd actually slept, after all, for a solid seven hours. Perhaps this was how people normally behaved around him, and he'd never noticed in his usual waking hours, during which he reserved all of his focus for getting his work done. None spared for the trivia of daily minutiae; Graves was never the type to waste people's time, let alone his own.  
  
But no, his momentary flight of fancy had been exactly that - to borrow a phrase from Graves' subordinates when they think he's not listening, he's an utter jerk with the sense of humor born out of a rougarou. Honestly, he's just relieved that the cause of the day's mystery is none other than—  
  
"Slept well, Commissioner?"  
  
"Madame President," Graves greets her with two hands held shoulder-level, palms up. Out of the corner of his eye, Graves watches Abernathy gesture wildly. Whatever the man's trying to communicate, he's not getting. "To what do I owe this visit?"  
  
"You've been avoiding me," President Picquery reminds him, regal as ever, to which Graves sweeps a hand towards the mounting paperwork surrounding every table in the bull pen, plus the ones beyond it.  
  
"The Grindelwald case—"  
  
"Is a priority, I understand," Picquery continues, unprompted, but her voice is inlaid with steel and no small amount of barbed wire. "Which is why I've come down here. To see you. So we can talk."  
  
"I could have just sent Abernathy upstairs to give you the report." The aforementioned young man swivels to Graves' direction, absolute panic clear on his face. Graves, otherwise unsmiling, merely winks at him. "He could use the change in scenery."  
  
" _Graves_."  
  
With one mention of his name, Picquery effortlessly causes all the lights to dim. Enchanted paper mice scurry away, and unmanned mops washing the windows halt dead-still. Even the computer screens littering the pen have turned their displays off in fear. Graves puts his hands up, this time in surrender. He himself forgets sometimes that Seraphina Picquery didn't arrive into this world fully formed, jewels and silk robes and all — she had been, and still is, one of the most powerful Aurors this side of the continent.  
  
"All right. All right," he insists, and between one heartbeat and the next the hustle and bustle of the bull pen resumes. "What do you want to know."  
  
Picquery flicks two fingers, sending papers flying up to form a map of New York's burroughs. Conjured ink bleeds into the sheets at certain spots, spreading out into spidery lines until they form a chaotic grid of intersections. Graves peers at it, then looks past the MACUSA President to compare her map with the sprawling one pinned to the far wall. Only a handful of similarities between them, but Graves frowns when he sees that the points that do overlap are the biggest points - confirmed sightings of Grindelwald within the state, proven by the body count the magiterrorist has been leaving behind.  
  
"I take it this is news to you." Picquery pulls him back to the present conversation, aware of his habit of diving headfirst into the work. The president waves her hand, and the map condenses into a single roll-up sheet, individual papers seamlessly merging with one another. She pinches the air, rolling the map before flicking it at Abernathy's general direction (the boy, testament to his work ethic, catches it with grace). Graves blinks.  
  
"Didn't take you for a show-off, with all due respect, Madame President."  
  
"Something is stalking the No-Majs of New York. Could be Grindelwald, could be something else entirely."  
  
Graves nods, thinking he's getting the picture she's painting out for him. "And you want Special Investigations to look into it, just in case."  
  
"Yes and no," Picquery answers. The answer is unlike her; the President is nothing if not direct, a quality mutually shared between them. It makes Graves sit up straight from where he's leaning against the edge of some detective's desk. "I want you to look into it." 

 

  
  
   
_(Queenie Goldstein peeks from behind a folding divider as Commissioner General Graves engages the President - the President! - of MACUSA in a shouting match in his office. The blinds are spelled to be sound-proof, but not light-proof, and the silhouettes of the two authority figures are - quite simply - going at it.  
  
And not in a pretty way.  
  
Abernathy, stock-still where Queenie's pressed up behind him, is in turn hugging at the hinges of the divider.  
  
"Good gravy," Abernathy mutters under his breath. "The commissioner's real mad."  
  
"He is," Queenie murmurs in agreement. "How is her fascinator staying in place like that?"  
  
"Her what?"  
  
"The hat thing, it's a— Never mind." The continue on, watching as the figures play out the dialogue they can't hear — well, Abernathy can't. Queenie can hear them perfectly fine.)_  
  


   
  
 "You're _benching_ me."  
  
Picquery's patience is running thin, Graves can see it. Fine lines are becoming more pronounced around her painted lips, and a deep furrow has formed between her eyebrows. At most, she looks primly annoyed to an outsider, but Graves knows the signs for what they are — the Madame President is furious.  
  
"You've been handling the Grindelwald case for nearly a year now, Graves. We're nowhere close to finding him, and you won't take on any more detectives to relieve you overworked team—"  
  
"If you didn't keep firing or otherwise demoting the ones I actually need—"  
  
"Goldstein _attacked_ a No-Maj in _broad daylight_ and Nightingale was abusing _opiates while on the clock_ —"  
  
"You come into my department throwing your weight around, you don't ask me why or for what—"  
  
"ENOUGH!" The room doesn't darken this time, but the walls shiver, and a few baubles on Graves' desk levitate a few inches before clinking back down.  
  
Graves seethes. He keeps his peace, and a loaded silence blankets the cramped office that Graves barely uses. She's still President, he reminds himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek that he's near fit to bleed. Picquery, for her part, deflates as she recomposes herself. Not enough to smooth her expression into a pleasant blankness, yet, but enough that Graves doesn't think he'll have to relocate everyone off his floor anymore. (Graves will say this of himself - he has no qualms about coming to blows with the President. He's earned his right to it, by his own measure.)  
  
"You've not been the same since you came back from Germany, Percy," she says at a volume so low Graves almost doesn't catch it. The use of his given name, too - Graves can see a power play from a mile out. For Picquery to play such an unsubtle one only proves how much less capable she's come to think of him. "He bested you. It stings. I get it."  
  
"Do you?" he ten-inch scar along Graves' left flank aches sympathetically at the memory of his duel with Grindelwald. It was right in the middle of Munich, surrounded by No-Majs and wizards alike; the Obliviation fiasco that followed was nothing compared to the sheer destruction he'd witnessed. Dead bodies, anywhere he looked - and Grindelwald hadn't used a single Unforgivable spell.

  
He hadn't needed to. Whatever it was that Grindelwald had hit him with, Graves knew he was lucky to survive. The mediwizard that treated him on the ride back stateside had been empathically explicit about it; if he'd been standing just an inch differently—  
  
"You haven't taken a break since you got back." Picquery's gentle but firm voice draws Graves back into the present. In one swoop, Graves finds himself tired of the whole conversation.

  
"So you are benching me."  
  
"You need to step back." Picquery's shoulders drop, just a smidge, from their marble-cast poise. "Look into this disturbance, verify it, if it ties into the case then it's no harm done."  
  
"I voted for you," Graves can't help but remind her. He's never been good at losing, no matter what the game was. "Remember how close that election had been?"  
  
The president smiles, and it's a sharp thing. Even sharper is the motherly kiss she leaves on Graves' cheek, her powerful hands smoothing across the Auror's shoulders. "I do. And I don't owe you anything."  
  
Graves laughs then, though it's a clipped sound with all the fight gone out of it. "You should've stayed an Auror."  
  
"You should've stayed in America."  
  
"Get the hell out of my office," Graves barks, pulling the door wide open with wandless magic, but there's a balance struck now between him and the president — a truce, as it were. "And give me Tina back."  
  
President Picquery throws him an eloquently arched look over one graceful shoulder before Disapparating away from his office. A minute later, a probationary reinstatement for Det. Porpentina Goldstein, Auror First Class, materializes on Graves' desk.  
  
From somewhere behind the folding divider, Graves hears an undignified squeak.


	3. Sister, bring it hither.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Can he feel me staring a hole into his head?_ Tina wonders - and at the exact moment she finishes the thought, Graves turns to look at her askance. It's only by virtue of growing up with a Legilimens for a sister that Tina doesn't flinch.
> 
> "I'm not like your sister," Graves says, unprompted, which only creeps Tina out more. "You think very loudly."
> 
> "You still haven't answered my question, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tinaaaa! I love Tina, and I couldn't resist writing a POV chapter for her. This chapter's pretty lighthearted, which might be a good thing considering what's been planned for the next one.

"You really don't find it suspicious at all?" Tina asks Queenie between bites of her breakfast.  
  
The Goldsteins are sitting on a long bench lined up against the marble walls of the Woolworth Building's hidden atrium, and Tina is hawkishly watching between the old-fashioned revolving doors and the row of freight elevators zipping along their merry way. It's seven forty-five in the morning, to the dot. Queenie pauses her attempt at fixing her eyeliner to yawn widely.  
  
And pointedly, too - she had every intention of taking her time with her outfit before she was unfairly dragged out of bed to go to work.  
  
"I don't understand why you can't just be happy for yourself," Queenie replies distractedly, as she dabs _just_ a little of gold to the tail-end of a classic cat-eye. "This was what you wanted."  
  
"He detained me!" Tina, who had been munching on a toasted chicken panini, sends crumbs flying as she emphasizes her statement with a gesture. (To her credit, Tina rushes a quick _sorry_ before biting into the pastry again.) "And then he suspended me!"  
  
" _You_ attacked that woman," Queenie gently reminds her. "She's a monster, but you said it yourself—"  
  
"I know, I _know_. I broke the law."  
  
Queenie snaps her pocket mirror shut, shrinks it to the size of a button before attaching it back to her bracelet as a charm. Ringing her wrist is a bracelet made of loopy silver chainlinks, with small charm-like objects clipped onto it at random intervals. She unclips what looks to be a small capsule, but what a quick brush of magic reveals to be a thermos.  
  
"It's chocolate," she answers Tina's unsaid question with a nudge, wordlessly manipulating the thermos to levitate and unscrew its own cap. It pours a generous amount into the cap, which Queenie floats over to Tina. "Cheer up, okay? You deserve this."  
  
A beat. What was slowly settling into companionable silence is interrupted by a slow, accusing headturn from Queenie.  
  
" _Tina. No._ " The Auror, halfway into a long drink from the cap, shoots a glare over to her sister, who gasps in sisterly offense at the thoughts being sent her way. "You really need to stop ambushing him like this."  
  


* * *

  
  
"You need to quit ambushing me like this," Percival Graves says first thing when he sees Tina waiting for him by the elevator, her stance as firm as the grip she has on her briefcase. Graves points to his cheek as he approaches. "You have something on your cheek."  
  
"Sir," Tina starts, wiping at the offending mark with her sleeve as she falls in step with Graves. She's still scrubbing when they board the elevator, discreetly using the shiny metal interiors of the carriage to see if she's caught everything. "Good morning, Commissioner."  
  
"You're welcome, Tina. Now let's just—"  
  
"Why am I being reinstated, Sir?" What Tina lacks in subtlety, she makes up for with directness. It hasn't failed her yet— well, excluding _that_ one time. "The board was very explicit on the demotion."  
  
"I thought you'd be happy."  
  
"I am, sir, but—"  
  
"Queenie was happy."  
  
"Sir, please," Tina interrupts with a deepening frown; color is starting to creep into her cheeks as well. "I'm not ungrateful - believe me, I'm ecstatic - but I'm not sure I fully understand why I'm— back."  
  
She watches her former - or current, again - superior for a sign - any sign that she could use to divine an answer from - but to Tina's lack of surprise Graves' expression remains unchanged. From the man's precisely styled hair to the sharp corners of his jacket, the man is inscrutable; not for the first time since she came into service as an Auror, Tina finds herself at a loss on what to make of him.  
  
They were taught during Auror training to school all facial and physical tics into a blank state, a means of disappearing into a crowd without magic so they might move around unnoticed by either No-Maj or wizard. As far as Tina's concerned that particular lesson, the man had written the playbook by which they were taught.  
  
_Can he feel me staring a hole into his head?_ Tina wonders - and at the exact moment she finishes the thought, Graves turns to look at her askance. It's only by virtue of growing up with a Legilimens for a sister that Tina doesn't flinch.  
  
"I'm not like your sister," Graves says, unprompted, which only creeps Tina out more. "You think very loudly."  
  
"You still haven't answered my question, sir."  
  
The elevator dings, and they disembark on the Special Investigations floor, where they're met by unbridled chaos. Tina breathes in deep - takes in the smell of loose printer toner as it returns itself into a cartridge broken open on the floor, the self-refilling coffee from Watson's cubicle, the stale amalgamated scent of meals eaten within the pen's confines over the past couple of weeks.  
  
She had missed this. Tina lets her gaze pull towards her old table, which has a thin layer of dust over it.  
  
Tina smiles in spite of herself.  
  
"You thought I'd replaced you?" Graves asks her in a manner of rhetoric. Abernathy has popped behind them in the meantime, ready to take Graves's jacket to hang when he spots Tina.  
  
"Goldstein? Hey, it's Goldstein!"  
  
Finally, heads turn. Business doesn't stop at Abernathy's hollering, but it slows enough for Tina to find herself a touch anxious about it. Graves pats her between the shoulders, murmuring _have fun_ to her before making a beeline for his office, thus leaving her to the mercies of her former peers. A handful of people simply return to their work, a few greeting her with a simple _welcome back to the pen_ ; two Aurors give her a thumbs up each. As for the rest of the Aurors - they've barely noticed her return, focused as they are on their work.  
  
"—and if you ever want to hear about how my lovelife is going," Abernathy is saying when Tina's momentary anxiety dissipates, "just punch me in the face."  
  
"I wouldn't do that to you."  
  
"Oh, so you _were_ listening," he responds archly, before gesturing to a stack of documents that, on his command, begin shuffling themselves over to her table. "Here's your 'welcome back to Special Investigations' gift basket. Enjoy!"  
  
Tina thanks him as he retreats back to his post, before she notices the pile hasn't stopped growing.  
  


* * *

  
  
Tina's notes have blanketed her entire table thrice over by the time lunch break rolls in, and this is how her sister finds her - hunched over a map of Lower Manhattan, a ceramic nib holder between her teeth and two pencils tucked behind her left ear, with her right hand armed with a blue highlighter as it's poised over a multicolored intersection.  
  
She doesn't look up until Queenie has cleared her throat the fifth time.  
  
"Crap, sorry," Tina apologizes. She stares at the scattered papers, plotting some way to arrange them into neater piles, but Queenie shushes her.  
  
"We can eat like this," she says, sitting herself in Tina's lone visitor's chair. "Do you want the tuna roll or the avocado salad?"  
  
Tina holds her hands out for the tuna roll, deftly unwrapping the packaging despite the highlighter still in her hand. "What's with all the No-Maj food lately? No, don't tell me, it's that Jakey—"  
  
"Jacob."  
  
"That guy." The Auror tears off a large junk from her roll and pops it into her mouth, narrowly missing drawing a blue streak on her cheek. "Have you been seeing him?"  
  
"Of course not." Queenie stabs at her salad with a little more force than necessary. "That would be breaking the law."  
  
Tina winces in sympathy. The Statute of Secrecy as it's implemented within the United States had been amended over the years, partly to keep up with the times and partly to stimulate marriages, but still remains to be one of the stricter interpretations of the statute. While witches and wizards can now marry No-Majs, they are still forbidden from revealing themselves as magical without the permission of the MACUSA. An entirely new enforcing body had to be established back in the 1970s to manage No-Maj-and-wizard affairs; the Domestic Relations and Matrimonies Agency (DRaMA) now almost exclusively handles cover stories for wizards and witches cohabiting with No-Majs, and all the magical problems that arise from those arrangements.  
  
The board had almost sent Tina to the DRaMA, if not for Graves' intercession on her behalf.  
  
Queenie's frown is right behind Tina's own just from the thought.  
  
"You're overthinking, Teenie," the Legilimens shushes over to Tina. "Don't you trust him?"  
  
Tina reclines into her seat, tipping it back on its two back legs as she picks at the back of her teeth with her tongue. She doesn't say anything for a few moments, turning her thoughts over on the matter of the Commissioner. When she speaks again, her voice solemn and steady.  
  
"I trust him to do the right thing for our people," Tina says, measuring the words evenly. "But he detained me, put me in front of the board for sanctioning, and then... what, fights for me to stay?"  
  
"You're a fantastic Auror."  
  
"So were Nightingale and Amaury. He let them go."  
  
"He's following the rules."  
  
Tina tsks, shakes her head too. "Commissioner Graves is a lot of things. He's not the ' _just_ following the rules' type."  
  
They drop the topic after that, filling the time with banter and easy conversation - Queenie's new dress, Tina's untouched collection of writing implements, their ongoing bet on Abernathy's romantic status - until the clock chimes at quarter to one.  
  
"Text me if you want me to wait up, okay, honey?" Queenie busses Tina on the cheek, careful not to press against any of Tina's notes when he leans across her sister's desk to do so. "And don't be chasing after any more New Salemers today, promise me."  
  
"What?" The New Salemers had crossed Tina's mind, certainly - she's been actively pushing Mary Lou Barebone's face from her mind whenever her thoughts edge around her congregation's existence. She's fairly sure she hadn't been thinking of them, though, when Queenie had come in for lunch.  
  
Queenie's confused look confirms that they're at odds — a surprising thing, given Queenie's ability and Tina's familiarity with it.  
  
"I just assumed," Queenie explains with a finger pointed at the copy of a map Tina had Spellotaped onto her desk lamp. "Those are New Salemers routes. You showed me, remember?"  
  


* * *

  
  
Tina spends the afternoon doing her career best to convince the Community Disturbances records clerk to let her back into her old cubicle.  
  


* * *

  
  
She also barges into the Commissioner's office in the same afternoon. She hopes he's still used to her doing so, despite her recent absence.  
  


* * *

  
  
This time, Graves doesn't bother with a remark. The man's just staring at Tina - who is standing at his doorway with a very wrinkled photocopy crushed in one hand - with the same look he's levelled at criminals.  
  
Tina is unfazed.  
  
"The maps, sir," she says, breathless and flushed. "I found a clue."  
  
Graves doesn't which map she means; news travels fast between divisions. He narrows his eyes at Tina, all the time. "Already. In a day."  
  
"You won't be happy, sir."  
  
"It's that bad?"  
  
"It's—" Tina falters momentarily, her raised hand returning to her side, but her resolve returns and hardens. She walks up to her superior's desk, smoothing the sheet out in front of the man. "It's a near-perfect overlap."  
  


* * *

  
  
Graves stares at a guide to the New Salemers' routes, plotted in Tina's well-curated handwriting. With a flick of his fingers, a copy of Picquery's map peels away from a folder and overlays itself on top of Tina's hand-drawn map. Save for three locations, the overlaps are at the exact same points.  
  
Tina, who's been holding her breath, finally lets it loose in a big sigh of relief.  
  
"Oh, we are both fucked," Graves tells her without taking his eyes off the maps, but Tina sees the objectively blatant satisfaction in the man's expression.  
  
"So... where did the President say she got her map from?"


End file.
